Maria Guerin watched with amused tolerance as her husband pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a tee-shirt. It really was a shame that her children dressed better than their father, she thought wryly.

"What?" he asked, sitting down on the bed to lace up his boots.

"I can’t believe that they let you come to work dressed like that."

"What?" he protested again. "It’s clean."

"For now." She shook her head. "So what’s the project for the day?"

"Pottery," he frowned. "I really don’t like clay."

She laughed at his disgusted expression. "You’re the art teacher. I don’t think you’re allowed to not like clay."

"It’s not funny," he said although he was beginning to grin. "I’d like to see you try teaching 30 seven-year-olds how to make pinch pots. It’s not as easy as it sounds."

"I guess that means you’ll be doing your own laundry this week?" she teased.

"Oh, come on. Clay is much easier to get out than paint."

* * * *

Michael Guerin wasn’t kidding.

He really didn’t like clay.

Clay reminded him of mud. And mud reminded him of his wife. And thinking about his wife when he was supposed to be keeping an eye on a roomful of rambunctious children was a sure recipe for a disaster of epic proportions. Mud wasn’t supposed to remind him of Maria. It had been a mantra he had come up with years ago to keep his mind off Maria. It had never, ever worked. He’d always had too much imagination for his own good. A small, waving arm revived him from his dangerous distraction.

"Uncle Mic … uh, Mr. Guerin?"

Michael suppressed a grin and crossed the classroom. Although technically they weren’t related to either the Whitmans or the Evanses, he and his wife had been Uncle Michael and Aunt Maria to their best friends’ kids ever since they were born. He stopped beside his nephew’s chair and knelt.

"What’s the problem, Matt?"

The first-grader frowned. "It doesn’t work right."

"Let’s try it with a little more water," Michael said, smiling gently as he began to help Matthew mold the unwieldy lump of clay into a respectable pot. He moved around the room from one child to the next with a quiet patience that would have astonished most of his own early teachers. He might hate clay, he thought, but he really did love his job.

* * * *

James Raddish walked slowly down the hallway. His own class was mercifully at PE this hour and he was enjoying the momentary respite of his planning period. As he headed toward the staff lounge for a much needed cup of late morning coffee he paused outside the art room, puzzled. For once it was surprisingly quiet. He risked a peek through the small window in the door to reassure himself that it was actually occupied. The thought of Michael Guerin leading an impromptu fieldtrip was more than slightly disturbing. But sure enough, twenty-eight little heads were bent industriously over slimy tabletops and fifty-six little hands were happily squishing globs of gray goo into God only knew what.

Despite his horror at the biohazard disaster that the classroom resembled James remained standing outside the door for a moment longer. His gaze followed the lanky art teacher with bemusement. There were muddy streaks on the man’s dark jeans and on his tee-shirt where he had pushed the long sleeves up past his elbows. Rumor had it that Mr. Guerin had worn a tie on the first day of school. He was a little sorry to have missed it. When the man turned to help another child James noticed that there was also a streak of clay through his wild dark hair. He remembered well the exact gesture that would have caused that. He had heard over the years that the most challenging students often made the most dedicated teachers. As he watched the man that had once been a hellion extraordinaire teaching now he wondered if perhaps there was a bit of truth to that cliché after all.

As he began to leave his eyes were caught by the mural at the end of the classroom. It hadn’t been finished the last time that he had seen it. Now bold swirls of color adorned the entire wall. A rich purple sky was filled with a luminous starscape. Brilliant crystal blue waves crashed against a shimmering golden shore. It wasn’t quite the same style as the paintings that had won such acclaim in certain circles, but he could almost picture creatures of ancient mythology stepping right out of it. It was a painting to fire a child’s imagination.

Mr. Guerin looked toward the door as if finally sensing his audience. The two men locked eyes for an instant. Then the grin that had haunted him for years broke across Michael Guerin’s face, lopsided and mischievous. Before James fled he saw one last glimpse of a child reaching up to tug at the teacher’s sleeve, leaving one more muddy handprint on his shirt.

* * * *

"Please don’t tell me you went around looking like that all day," Maria said as she dropped her purse into a living room chair.

"Like what?" Michael asked defensively. He glanced down at his clothes. They were clean. He’d changed them when he and the kids had gotten home from school. He looked back up at his wife, baffled. She leaned over to kiss him then ran her fingers through his hair. Dried clay crumbled into fine dust and settled on his shoulders. "Oh."

"Shower. Now."

"Yes, ma’am," he sighed as he rose. He threw a mock scowl at his children who merely erupted in gales of laughter. Guess that explained why they’d been giggling all afternoon, he thought. "You’re supposed to tell me about things like this."

"But Daddy," Nicole blinked up at him innocently. "We thought you wanted it that way."

He looked at her thoughtfully then moved to stand over his oldest daughter. He ran his hand through his hair, showering her with clay dust.

"Daddy, noooo!" she howled with laughter.

Never a pair to be left out of a good family brawl, the twins hurled themselves at him. Michael crumpled to the living room floor, dragging the boys with him as little Molly climbed on his back.

"Help!" he pleaded as he was buried beneath an avalanche of children.

Maria laughed. "You brought this on yourself, space boy."

"Save me!"

"I already did," she said with a quiet smile.

His grin faded into a softer smile, too as he looked at the children wrapped around his neck and legs. He looked back up at his wife and nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "You did."

Back to Area 51 (Section III)